The Complete Poems

  A song to indite

  That nevermore shall die.

  The Poet being divine

  Admits no social sin,

  Spurring with wine

  And lust the Muse within.

  Finding no use at all

  In arms or civic deeds,

  Perched on a wall

  Fulfilling fancy’s needs.

  Let parents, children, wife,

  Be ghosts beside his art,

  Be this his life

  To hug the snake to his heart.

  Sad souls, the more we stress

  The advantage of our crown,

  So much the less

  Our welcome by the Town,

  By the gross and rootling hog

  Who grunts nor lifts his head,

  By jealous dog

  Or old ass thistle-fed.

  By so much less their praise,

  By so much more our glory.

  Grim pride outweighs

  The anguish of our story.

  We strain our strings thus tight,

  Our voices pitch thus high,

  To enforce our right

  Over futurity.

  EPIGRAMS

  ON CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

  Here ranted Isaac’s elder son,

  The proud shag-breasted godless one,

  From whom observant Smooth-Cheek stole

  Birthright, blessing, hunter’s soul.

  A VILLAGE FEUD

  The cottage damson, laden as could be,

  Scowls at the Manor House magnolia-tree

  That year by year within its thoughtless powers

  Yields flowers and leaves and flowers and leaves and flowers,

  While the Magnolia shudders as in fear:

  ‘Figurez-vous! two sackfuls every year!’

  DEDICATORY

  Dolon, analyst of souls,

  To the Graces hangs up here

  His shrimp-net rotting into holes

  And oozy from the infernal mere;

  He wreathes his gift around with cress,

  Lush harvest of the public cess.

  TO MY COLLATERAL ANCESTOR, REV. R. GRAVES, THE FRIEND OF THE POET SHENSTONE AND AUTHOR OF THE SPIRITUAL QUIXOTE: ON RECEIPT OF A PRESS-CUTTING INTENDED FOR HIM.

  O friend of Shenstone, do you frown

  In realms remote from me

  When Messrs Durrant send you down

  By inadvertency

  Clippings identifying you

  With some dim man in the moon,

  A Spiritual Quixote, true,

  But friend of S. Sassoon?

  ‘A VEHICLE, TO WIT, A BICYCLE’

  (Dedicated, without permission, to my friend P.C. Flowers)

  ‘My front-lamp, constable? Why, man, the moon!

  My rear-lamp? Shining there ten yards behind me,

  Warm parlour lamplight of The Dish and Spoon!’

  But for all my fancy talk, they would have fined me,

  Had I not set a rather sly half-crown

  Winking under the rays of my front lamp:

  Goodwill towards men disturbed the official frown,

  My rear-light beckoned through the evening’s damp.

  MOTTO TO A BOOK OF EMBLEMS

  Though you read these, but understand not, curse not!

  Or though you read and understand, yet praise not!

  What poet weaves a better knot or worse knot

  Untangling which, your own lives you unbrace not?

  THE BOWL AND RIM

  The bearded rabbi, the meek friar,

  Linked by their ankles in one cell,

  Through joint distress of dungeon mire

  Learned each to love his neighbour well.

  When four years passed and five and six,

  When seven years brought them no release,

  The Jew embraced the crucifix,

  The friar assumed phylacteries.

  Then every Sunday, keeping score,

  And every Sabbath in this hymn

  They reconciled an age-long war

  Between the platter’s bowl and rim.

  ‘Man-like he lived, but God-like died,

  All hatred from His thought removed,

  Imperfect until crucified,

  In crucifixion well-beloved.

  ‘If they did wrong, He too did wrong,

  (For love admits no contraries)

  In blind religion rooted strong

  Both Jesus and the Pharisees.

  ‘“Love all men as thyself,” said He.

  Said they, “Be just with man or dog”,

  “But only loathe a Pharisee”,

  “But crucify this demagogue”.

  ‘He died forgiving on the Tree

  To make amends for earlier spite;

  They raised Him up their God to be,

  And black with black accomplished white.

  ‘When He again descends on man

  As chief of Scribes and Pharisees,

  With loathing for the Publican,

  The maimed and halt His enemies,

  ‘And when a not less formal fate

  Than Pilate’s justice and the Rood

  His righteous angers expiate,

  To make men think Him wholly good,

  ‘Then He again will have done wrong,

  If God be Love for every man,

  For lewd and lettered, weak and strong,

  For Pharisee or Publican,

  ‘But like a God He will have died,

  All hatred from His thought removed,

  Imperfect until crucified,

  In crucifixion well-beloved.’

  A FORCED MUSIC

  Of Love he sang, full-hearted one.

  But when the song was done,

  The King demanded more,

  Ay, and commanded more.

  The boy found nothing for encore,

  Words, melodies, none:

  Ashamed the song’s glad rise and plaintive fall

  Had so charmed King and Queen and all.

  He sang the same verse once again,

  But urging less Love’s pain,

  With altered time and key

  He showed variety,

  Seemed to refresh the harmony

  Of his only strain,

  So still the glad rise and the plaintive fall

  Could charm the King, the Queen, and all.

  He of his song then wearying ceased,

  But was not yet released;

  The Queen’s request was ‘More’,

  And her behest was ‘More’.

  He played of random notes some score,

  He found his rhymes at least –

  Then suddenly let his twangling harp down fall

  And fled in tears from King and Queen and all.

  THE TURN OF A PAGE

  ‘He suddenly,’ the page read as it turned,

  ‘Died.’

  The indignant eye discerned

  No sense. ‘Good page, turn back,’ it cried,

  (Happily evermore was cheated).

  ‘After these things he suddenly died,’

  The truthful page repeated.

  ‘Turn back you earlier pages, nine or ten,

  To “Him she loved” and “He alone of men”.

  Now change the sentence, page!’ But still it read

  ‘He suddenly died: they scarce had time to kiss.’

  ‘Read on, ungentle reader,’ the book said,

  ‘Resign your hopes to this.’

  The eye could not resign, restless in grief,

  But darting forward to a later leaf

  Found ‘Him she loved’ and ‘He alone of men’.

  Oh, who this He was, being a second He,

  Confused the plan; the book spoke sternly then,

  ‘Read page by page and see!’

  THE MANIFESTATION IN THE TEMPLE

  On the High Feast Day in that reverent space

  Between the Sacrifice and the word of Grace,

  I, come to town with a merry-makin
g throng

  To pay my tithes and join in the season’s song,

  Closing my eyes, there prayed – and was hurried far

  Beyond what ages I know not, or what star,

  To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glint

  And the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint,

  Then, in this movement, being not I but part

  In the fellowship of the universal heart,

  I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength,

  I thought and worked omnipotence. At length

  Hit in my high flight by some sorry thought

  Back to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caught

  And asked in pique what enemy had worked this,

  What folly or anger thrust against my bliss?

  Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-wood

  With noise of a distant fluting, and one who stood

  Nudging my elbow breathed ‘Oh, miracle! See!’

  The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously,

  They fling them down on their faces every one,

  Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan.

  Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar niche

  Wavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch.

  Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod.

  The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood.

  The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wings

  Distresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings,

  And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears,

  A sign to himself he must lay aside his fears.

  It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleads

  Prompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs,

  Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath,

  A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth,

  A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain,

  And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintain

  Lest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain!

  With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in Spring

  To such as perform the will of the Jealous King.

  To his priestly servants hearken!

  The syllables die.

  Now up from the congregation issues a sigh

  As of stopped breath slow released. But here stands one

  Who has kept his feet though the others fell like stone,

  Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone,

  To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch,

  By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, ‘Not overmuch

  Do I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest.

  Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least,

  An honest citizen of this honest town

  May preach these nightmare apparitions down,

  These blundering, perfumed noises come to tell

  No more than a priest-instructed folk knows well.

  Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be,

  Break not true prayer between my God and me.’

  TO ANY SAINT

  You turn the unsmitten other cheek,

  In silence welcoming God’s grace,

  Disdaining, though they scourge, to speak,

  Smiling forgiveness face to face.

  You plunge your arms in tyrant flame,

  From ravening beasts you do not fly,

  Calling aloud on one sweet Name,

  Hosannah-singing till you die.

  So angered by your undefeat,

  Revenge through Christ they meditate,

  Disciples at the bishop’s feet

  They learn this newer sort of hate,

  This unresisting meek assault

  On furious foe or stubborn friend,

  This virtue purged of every fault

  By furtherance of the martyr’s end,

  This baffling stroke of naked pride,

  When satires fail and curses fail

  To pierce the justice’s tough hide,

  To abash the cynics of the jail.

  Oh, not less violent, not less keen

  And barbèd more than murder’s blade!

  ‘The brook,’ you sigh, ‘that washes clean,

  The flower of love that will not fade!’

  A DEWDROP

  The dewdrop carries in its eye

  Snowdon and Hebog, sea and sky,

  Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors,

  And half a county’s out-of-doors:

  Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shield

  In this remote and rocky field.

  But why should man in God’s Name stress

  The dewdrop’s inconspicuousness

  When to lakes, woods, the estuary,

  Hebog and Snowdon, sky and sea,

  This dewdrop falling from its leaf

  Can spread amazement near to grief,

  As it were a world distinct in mould

  Lost with its beauty ages old?

  A VALENTINE

  The hunter to the husbandman

  Pays tribute since our love began,

  And to love-loyalty dedicates

  The phantom hunts he meditates.

  Let me pursue, pursuing you,

  Beauty of other shape and hue,

  Retreating graces of which none

  Shone more than candle to your sun,

  Your well-loved shadow beckoning me

  In unfamiliar imagery –

  Smile your forgiveness; each bright ghost

  Dives in love’s glory and is lost,

  Yielding your comprehensive pride

  A homage, even to suicide.

  The Feather Bed

  (1923)

  THE WITCHES’ CAULDRON

  In sudden cloud that, blotting distance out,

  Confused the compass of the traveller’s mind,

  Biased his course: three times from the hill’s crest

  Trying to descend but with no track to follow,

  Nor visible landmark – three times he had struck

  The same sedged pool of steaming desolation,

  The same black monolith rearing up before it.

  This third time then he stood and recognized

  The Witches’ Cauldron, only known before

  By hearsay, fly-like on whose rim he had crawled

  Three times and three times dipped to climb again

  Its uncouth sides, so to go crawling on.

  By falls of scree, moss-mantled slippery rock,

  Wet bracken, drunken gurgling watercourses

  He escaped, limping, at last, and broke the circuit –

  Travelling down and down; but smooth descent

  Interrupted by new lakes and ridges,

  Sprawling unmortared walls of boulder granite,

  Marshes; one arm hung bruised where he had fallen;

  Blood in a sticky trickle smeared his cheek;

  Sweat, gathering at his eyebrows, ran full beads

  Into his eyes, which made them smart and blur.

  At last he blundered on some shepherd’s hut –

  He thought, the hut took pity and appeared –

  With mounds of peat and welcome track of wheels

  Which he now followed to a broad green road

  That ran from right to left; but still at fault,

  The mist being still on all, with little pause

  He chose the easier way, the downward way.

  Legs were dog-tired already, but this road,

  Gentle descent with some relief of guidance,

  Maintained his shambling five miles to the hour

  Coloured with day-dreams. Then a finger-post

  Moved through the mist, pointing into his face,

  Yet when he stopped to read gave him no comfort.

  Seventeen miles to – somewhere, God knows where –

  The paint was weathered to a puzzle

  Which cold-unfocused eyes could not atte
mpt –

  And jerking a derisive thumb behind it

  Up a rough stream-wet path: ‘The Witches’ Cauldron,

  One mile.’ Only a mile

  For two good hours of stumbling steeplechase!

  There was a dead snake by some humorous hand

  Twined on the pointing finger; far away

  A bull roared hoarsely, but all else was mist.

  Then anger overcame him…

  THE FEATHER BED

  ‘Goodbye, but now forget all that we were

  Or said, or did to each other, here’s goodbye.

  Send no more letters now, only forget

  We ever met…’ and the letter maunders on

  In the unformed uncompromising hand

  That witnesses against her, yet provides

  Extenuation and a grudging praise.

  Rachel to be a nun! Postulate now

  For her noviciate in a red brick convent:

  Praying, studying, wearing uniform,

  She serves the times of a tyrannic bell,

  Rising to praise God in the early hours

  With atmosphere of filters and stone stairs,

  Distemper, crucifixes and red drugget,

  Dusty hot-water pipes, a legacy-library…

  Sleep never comes to me so tired as now

  Leg-chafed and footsore with my mind in a blaze

  Troubling this problem over, vexing whether

  To beat Love down with ridicule or instead

  To disregard new soundings and still keep

  The old course by the uncorrected chart,

  (The faithful lover, his unchanging heart)

  Rachel, before goodbye

  Obscures you in your sulky resignation

  Come now and stand out clear in mind’s eye

  Giving account of what you were to me

  And what I was to you and how and why,

  Saying after me, if you can say it, ‘I loved.’

  Rachel so summoned answers thoughtfully

  But painfully, turning away her head,

  ‘I lived and thought I loved, for I had gifts

  Of most misleading, more than usual beauty,

  Dark hair, grey eyes, capable fingers, movement

  Graceful and certain; my slow puzzled smile

  Accusing of too much ingenuousness

  Yet offered more than I could hope to achieve,

  And if I thought I loved, no man would doubt it.’

  So speaks the image as I read her mind,

  Or is it my pride speaks on her behalf,